


Offering the Deathless Death

by Skostbuster



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Work In Progress, an attempt was made oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-05-19 07:39:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19352476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skostbuster/pseuds/Skostbuster
Summary: When Holy Water won't do away with a demon who botched the Apocalypse, Hell goes for their next best option: an Executioner who specializes in ridding Hell of treasonous demons. It's all rather unfortunate that the Executioner in question has been out of commission for over 600 years and finds themselves in competition for the demon's life.(This is my first fanfic in uhhh 500 years but with G.O. out as a show now it's brought about some creativity in my brain area whoops)(There'll also be some POV changes in the chapters)(Y e s the title is a Hozier song lyric)





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the places I could be on this massive rock, of all the things I can see, of all the curiosities that strike my thoughts… I’m here. In a laundromat in the middle of Vermont, glancing between gummy worms and roasted peanuts in a vending machine, wondering which side had the bright idea for laundromats.

 

In some weird way, I have a hunch both had a hand in its creation. On one side, Heaven sees the ever-exhausted souls of humans return home after wasting a good third or more of their depressing day at a job they despise, ready to wash away the memories, only to find that little Timmy wondered the aftereffects of dropping a brick or some dirt from the backyard into the fancy contraptions. As Timmy’s promptly shipped to the furthest military academy in the state, the featherheads notice the less-fortunate reduced to putting the kitchen sink and tubs to other use. So of course it’s natural to believe that the first schmuck to come across a building lined to the brim with those clunky squares is going to fall to their knees and praise all those Above, right?

 

At first.

 

The thing about the majority of the human race, at least what my experiences have taught me while venturing the west, is that most corporations adored a common vision: Monday through Friday shifts. Absolutely love it, they do (were I the demon to plant in their head, I’d likely still be down there boasting about it); their pawns of employees wake up at the crack of dawn, dump an unhealthy amount of caffeine down their throats while imagining places they’d rather be, then sit stuck in traffic while hoping the next day would be so much better before passing out face-first on the bed. Clothes piled up before busted machines, tensions boiled in the household before wives turned to shoving table scraps into a sickly green jello for the doting husband to obviously devour… I’m digressing. Anyway, the shifts. Friday comes and goes, you envision pure peace and relaxation from the chaos, ready to kick back and turn your brain off for some entertainment, and what happens?

 

You’re at the laundromat. Around you, there’s anywhere between ten to fifteen other people who, much like yourself, don’t want to be there. The idea they’re there sickens them. No one’s looking at each other, more than half the machines are already out of commission or leaking subs on a floor that hasn’t been cleaned for almost a year. Small talk is attempted, and about a minute later it’s back to an air of uncomfortable silence. Pretty sure anyone who thanked the Above mentally requested a refund for that praise.

 

Gummy worms. Roasted peanuts.

 

I feel like I’m forgetting something big… like I missed some kind of… Ah, I can’t remember. Must’ve not been  _ that  _ important.

 

It’s a hot summer day in Vermont, the air conditioner is a trio of sputtering fans in the corner, and I've been standing in the same spot for about an hour, three quarters rolling between my fingers as I juggle between two items a college student would classify as a nutritious meal. On the folding table, a small radio plays for the fifth time [a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXfQYRjjxvc) better suited for a surf shack on either coast. I don’t think anyone noticed the repeats, but it would only take a quick miracle to quench that observation for good. In my head, I chuckled. Surfing tunes in Vermont of all places. Humans are an odd bunch.

 

It’s then that my attention catches something off.

 

For about the whole time I’ve been standing here, on the third row, the coil for an empty slot has been going non-stop. Turning and rolling, rolling and turning, squealing and squeaking. In a way, it goes with the surfing song, mixing in a nice rhythm with the saxophone solo. 

 

The squeaking and rolling’s stopped.

 

Actually, everything’s stopped. The young woman stands mid-step between her hamper and the dryer, a handful of towels hovering in the air, her two kids once pushing the stroller of their unfortunate infant sibling remain still by her legs, and the much older man eyeing the woman in a manner many would find creepy as he fails to notice the amount of water dripping from his clothes… all have stopped in place. 

 

The radio continues on. Sixth repeat.

 

_ Bzz, bzz, bzz… _

 

My eyes didn’t leave the vending machine; her reflection was clear as day save for the gummy worms obstructing her eyes. Shame, her eyes were one of her best features. Ah. Digressing again.

 

“Beez. You look as hellish as ever. New coat?”

 

“You should be lucky it’zz not your skin. Your disappearing act from Below zzpoke louder than the praises you’d spout out.”

 

Deep down, I’m really glad the worms blocked her eyes. 

 

Outside, I feigned a look of shock. “I’ll have you know that thanks to my loyalty to the prince, I single-handedly increased Satanism in a whopping twelve states in the last fifteen years. I hardly think any demon can top that record.”

 

A low  _ bzz. _ “And for the other 654 years?”

 

I opened my mouth, shut it, opened it again, then half-assed a shrug. “Give me five minutes and I’m sure I can think up a crappy excuse. But, it looks like my absence didn’t really leave that big of an impact down there since you only now just find me. You got seven others down there who know what they’re doing. Ish.”

 

“They lack your prowess. It’zz sloppy work, they only perform for a crowd.”

 

The corners of my lips tipped upwards, and the rolling of my quarters came to a pause. “I’ve a feeling you didn’t bring yourself all the way topside just to insult those hacks Below and interrogate my whereabouts. That kind of thing seems more appropriate for, ah… what’s her name… Francine.”

 

“Dagon,” Beelzebub quickly corrected, her own lip curling. “I’ve a tazzk for you. Do it right, and I’ll forget your unplanned vacation to the top.”

 

My mind’s teetering on the roasted peanuts as I roll on the heels of my sandals. “For the prince of Hell, I’m all ears. Though, if all ears was my true form, that might be a little revolting now that I think about it. Yeuch.”

 

“I need a rogue demon removed from the surface. Dizzcorporated by your hand. Hunt him down, tear him to shreds, I don’t care how you do it. I want him back in Hell and sent to the deepest pit.”

 

Then again… the gummy worms don’t look half bad. “Pardon my intrusion, Lord, but that job sounds more suited for a bounty hunter. Tracking and hunting targets isn’t really in the job description of an Executioner.” I paused. “Though, Executioner-Hunter? Hunter & Executioner? Play around with it enough and I can think up a good ti-”   
  


The bag of worms formed two, icy orbs glaring in my direction and I pantomimed my lips zipping.

 

“I don’t want a bounty hunter mucking this up, and we already know where he izz. All you need to do is go there, discorporate him, and leave the rest to me. Anything in your way is free game, human or…” Her lips twisted again. “Or angel.”

 

“Huh, never did away with an angel before. Be one for the books.” I clinked the quarters together. “What’d he do, told Dagon she smelled as pretty as a valley of lilies? Blessed a sneeze?”

 

“Aided the enemy, killed a fellow demon…  _ Ruined Armageddon.” _

__

 

__

All five levels of panic rang on full volume in my head, and suddenly the roasted peanuts were looking absolutely delightful in comparison to the other. “Ah… yeah, that’s, that’s waaaay not good. I mean, heck, I was really looking forward to all the… Armageddon stuff, y’know? All the fire and the… burning, and…”

__

 

__

“Drop it,” Beelzebub snapped, and her wish was my command. “You’ll find the demon in London, often frequenting a… place most humans go to admire nature and creatures.” It was her turn to pause, she leaned forward to look in front of me, then behind. “Your weapon?”

__

 

__

“Wea… oh, yeah. That.” I jabbed a thumb to the bench by the wall, where a lumpy, grey duffle bag rested lopsided. Protruding from a small opening in the middle was a sleek, wooden baseball bat. 

__

 

__

Beelzebub stared at it, then to me, then back to the bag, her brows furrowing.

__

 

__

“Oh, yeah, it’s uh… apparently, it’s not considered ‘neat’ to walk around with sharp weapons around humans. Had to blend in with the meatsacks, and no one really questions your intent with that on your person. They just think you’re out to have a spot of fun with the… guys.”

__

 

__

“Clearly,” she muttered. “I want you in London as soon as you’re able. Memorize the whole city if you muzzt, I want him robbed of any sanctuary or shelter. I want him to ever regret siding with us. I want him  _ gone. _ ”

__

 

__

“London’s probably really nice this time of year,” I mused to myself, and with a graceful turn of my feet I bowed, extending a hand. “Lord Beelzebub, prince of Hell, consider your wishes granted. Give me a name, and I’ll hand-deliver him to the deepest pit of Hell with you as my honored audience.”

__

 

__

“He has many names I’ve called him, but he goes only by Crowley. I’ll await your return… But should you even consider failing, I’ll reserve the pit for you.”

__

 

__

Slowly, I straightened myself out, my eyes meeting the top of her hat and venturing down to her face. A mirthless smirk ran across my lips.

__

 

__

“If I consider failure, I’ll expect more than just a pit.”

__

 

__

In an instant, the laundromat burst alive with a mouthful of swears from the man as the entirety of his front becomes soaked in water and soap, the clothes from the washer dropping from his hands. The kids push and pull the stroller, blissfully ignoring their mom’s pleas to quit traumatizing their sibling as she shoved piping hot clothes into the hampers. Where Beezlebub once stood was replaced by nothing, and the radio goes on to play the song for the eighth time.

__

 

__

“Right, that was… right. London, neat. Back in business, okay, but after a quick ol’ sna…”

__

 

__

The roasted peanuts were gone.

__


	2. The Unseen Watchers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y e enjoy

Crowley…? Crowley, are you even listening? You’re about to…”

 

The demon’s shoe (at least, Aziraphale was sure they were shoes), had already become acquainted with the shallow puddle along the park’s path. Crowley’s lips didn’t curl upward in annoyance, he didn’t curse the innocent pool of icy water, he didn’t react at all. His head remained turned towards another direction, past the still lake void of the many ducks and swans that won the adoration of those visiting while at the same time alerting secret agents of their approaching targets.

 

“Crowley.”

 

The demon continued his stare across the water, oblivious to the darkening sky and sparse flakes falling from above. 

 

“ _ Crowley.  _ Dear, you…” Aziraphale fell silent, taking a small step to the left with a sigh. Whatever held Crowley’s attention so tightly found itself overpowered by a sudden jab to his hand from the corner of a bench. He stumbled forward, albeit a tad over-dramatically. Then again, he always did love to take it up a couple notches…

 

“Ah! For Sa…” Crowley hissed sharply and waved his reddening hand in the chilled air before shoving it crookedly within the pocket of his heavy coat. He scowled, dark sunglasses masking a glower to his portly friend. “No warning?”

 

Aziraphale allowed himself a small smirk in response. “You know my limit, dear: three warnings, and it’s no fault of mine if you refuse to heed them. To which I’m surprised! No mumble for the first, and certainly no rebellious shrug to the second.”

 

“It’s bloody cold out,” Crowley huffed in response, fanning away the small white clouds hovering by his lips. “I’m just making sure I’m not prone to frostbite, so forgive me if I drown out words here and there… Wait, don’t forgive me. Demon and all.” He flinched when a particularly large flake landed on his nape. “Why are we still here? You said we’d only be here for a little while.”

 

Adjusting the tartan scarf around his neck, the angel took care to step over a small puddle in his path. “Even with your… sensitivity to the winter, you’re hardly at risk for that.” He made a mental reminder to purchase that lovely red scarf and hat set later that day. “Though I worry it’s not the weather to blame this time. ‘A little while’ passed some time ago, and here you kept going.” He peered across the lake, eyes squinting. “Whatever is so important over there? Have we… company?”

 

Crowley fell silent for a moment, his lips twisted and brows furrowed. “No. Maybe. I’m not sure, angel. It was… I don’t know. It was quick, whatever it was, like a blip.”

 

“A sight? Sound? Smell, perhaps?”

 

“A feeling. Odd feeling, odd one. Almost like one you’d get when someone is looking to buy your books.”

 

It was Aziraphale’s turn to scowl, tugging his scarf once again. “Had the most awful customer today, he kept trying to offer disastrous amounts of money for my Jules Verne collection, and to make a side comment of his wife’s rather large insurance policy in an attempt to pique my interest...”

 

Crowley never tired to hear of Aziraphale’s work stories, or any of his stories for that matter; the humans may have won him over with their crafty inventions, but none compared to his rambling angel with his weekly irksome customer tales. Despite numerous flakes falling on his hair and shoulders, a faint smile played on his lips, following each spastic hand movements of Aziraphale’s flawless recreation of gently ushering the man outside and succeeding with a wide sweep and rapid closing of the door.

 

He started to turn. “Come on, angel, the day’s perfect to hole up in your shop and go in on some Châta-”

 

A sudden, icy wave struck Crowley, a phantom hand brushing past his shoulders and torso before clamping down on his leg, holding him in place. He tried to step back, fighting a wince as the invisible grip dug into his skin past his clothes, two extended fingers crawling up his spine. Behind him… no, to his right, left… no, in front of him…! Everywhere his head turned, eyes were on him, piercing gazes.

 

Eyes of shadows. Haunting, burning eyes.

 

“And so after he bribed the third teenager to go in, let me tell you I was  _ this _ close to sm…” Aziraphale’s sentence trailed to an end as he raised a gloved fist in the air, blue eyes resting on the still form of his dear friend. A thin sheet of white settled along his shoulders and head, the stark red hair vanishing with each added flake descending from the sky. 

 

He hesitated, but gently grabbed Crowley’s arm. “Cro-”   
  


His fingers barely touched the coat when the demon scrambled backwards with a gasp, crashing to the ground as the heel of his shoe caught an ice patch. He fell with a rough  _ thud,  _ glasses askew, but with an immediate adjustment, no curious passerby caught what lay beneath.

 

Immediately, Aziraphale was at his side, hands on both arms and concern swimming on his face. Carefully, he helped Crowley to his feet and guided him to the closest bench, a quick snap of the fingers turning unwanted attention to other sights.

 

He didn’t bother to ask the obvious question, glancing over Crowley’s hands and elbows. “Minor scrapes, thank goodness, but… what happened there?”

 

“Nothing,” Crowley grunted, ignoring the faint scratches along his palms as his eyes scoured the park. Occult forces always had a way to… subtly notify or sense other demonic powers in the area of their location; often, this was used to push any wandering rookies out of a veteran’s turf, and the less unfortunate times, used by rookies to challenge angels before they were thoroughly smote. 

 

He sensed nothing.

 

“Let’s go. I’m freezing, and I wanted to be drunk an hour ago.” He rose to his feet, shaking hands falling limp at his sides, his footsteps measured and relaxed, as if a small voice in the back of his head wasn’t screaming to act casual or his legs will for sure leap into the lake at the earliest convenience.

 

Aziraphale wasted no time following, throwing a cautious look behind them before quickening his pace to reach Crowley.

  
  


_ Fleet Street, 1 hour earlier _

 

 

Since the beginning, two statements have been ingrained in every active human mind: angels perform good deeds, and demons bad deeds. When demons are afoot, temptations are bound to happen to the poor and unfortunate folk who couldn’t catch a break from any direction in life. But in those times, humans retained the confidence that when evil reared its ugly, smelly head, there would always be an ethereal force close by and ready to deliver a miracle to those whose faith superseded their fears. Angels perform good deeds, and demons bad deeds.

 

In actuality, that statement is only 15% true. Angels were famous for performing good deeds and miracles, and demons sending out their tricks, but the end result is not always the expectation. Some angels, for example, aren’t wholly fit to mingle around humans, and instead transferred to other departments in Heaven for more promising, less-destructive careers. Secretary to a secretary, custodian, cabinet cleaner, and, as a last resort, Guardian of the Far Left Corner.

 

On the corner of Fleet Street, Phee found herself reminiscing on them all with equal resentment, standing in place as the walking signal flashed ‘get a move on’ for the fifth time that hour. Others offered the briefest of glances as they passed by, only for more pressing thoughts and matters to take over. Curled locks bounced and twirled in the breeze before drifting clumsily down and tickling her cheeks. There was no batting away the locks, no accidental outburst or chuckle at the tickle. She only stared ahead as the signal flashed before turning a solid, intimidating red.

 

“Hey, you, uh… conscious? H’llo? Okay, you just blinked, still alive. Cool… ‘Scuse me.”

 

Two taps on her shoulder jerked her back to reality with a swift kick, and with it an outcry of shock coupled with a sudden hop and swing of her arm. Thank goodness for her shoddy aim; it only smacked the newcomer’s hat clean off their head and onto the damp sidewalk.

 

The two stood for a few passing moments, silent, when the metaphorical light switch went on in Phee’s head.

 

“Ohh, oh goodness, I’m so… Oh, your hat! Here, I’ll get...” She kicked it away and into a small pile of slush. “Sorry. Pardon me, ma’am, almost go-got it, here!” She shuffled back to the newcomer, turning the black-rimmed hat around twice before setting it atop their flattened hair. “Oh, you got… That’s my, my footprint on top, ah, so sorry, let me just…”

 

The newcomer held up a hand, taking a wide step back with a crooked if not awkward smile. “Ah, pass on the offer for now. Judging by your…” They vaguely gestured to all of Phee. “Well, maybe you can help me. Kinda haven’t been back here in… uh, a while so I nee… You’re staring at me.”

 

Her blue eyes were doing just that. Staring at the newcomer and their odd accent, their questionable choices of fashion, particularly in the socks and sandals area (and in the winter, even), their striking eyes, those similar to…

 

“You’re still staring.”

 

“Huh…? Oh geez, I didn’t mean, I…” Phee held up both hands hidden by her wool sweater. “It’s just, your… accent! I’ve ne-never heard it before, it’s so lovely! What is it, ah, Welsh?”

 

“Jersey. Look, I gotta meet someone at some joint called ‘Old Checker Cheese’ in a hot 20 minutes, so if I’m close to it, awesome, but if it’s like half-way across the city I gotta-”

 

“‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese,’ yes! It’s down this street a bit, but you can’t miss it. I haven’t been there in ages, hands-down their best meal is, oh, what was it…”

 

They glanced past Phee’s shoulders, lips twisting as if they’d come across an unpleasant sight of utmost misery. “Down that way, huh? Neat. Cool. ‘Preciate the help, feathers.” With a small wave, they tipped their hat to the angel and walked past, adjusting the bag draped along their shoulder.

 

A strong, cold breeze blew down the street, but despite the chilling temperatures it brought, Phee found herself beaming. One week with no errors, no accidents, and best of all, no temptations! Oh, if Nathaniel saw this, he’d regret transferring her to the corner; not only did her minor miracle that morning keep the students from skipping class, her accurate knowledge of a certain street helped assure the visitor would arrive for the meeting of good intentions.

 

Striking eyes. 

 

_ ‘Preciate the help, feathers. _

 

Her smile dropped.

 

_ Oh, crap. _

 

Quickly dropping a mental forgiveness for thinking such a profane word, she whipped around, catching the footprint-decorated hat at a leisurely pace. Before she knew it, she was following the demon, keeping a buffer of three humans between the two. Within the sleeves of her sweater, her hands shook; if they were to consider any act of temptation, consider possessing some poor soul, if anything she’d double their chances at success. Perhaps, just perhaps if she could...

 

Behind her, a bus rolled to a stop, and a voice caught her ears. She paled.

 

“It’s not far, I can  _ smell _ it close by.”

 

Sandalphon. Archangel. A wicked smiter to all evil, a nightmare to demons. Salt man.

 

Aiding a demon turned extinct in her mind, a cold sweat breaking over her face as she scrambled from side to side, finding shelter within an alcove carved within one of the buildings. Supernatural beings had no need to breathe unless they truly put an effort into it, and over the years, Phee found it relaxing in times of utter panic and chaos. That moment, her breathing came to a sudden halt, her back to the passing crowds along the sidewalk, trembling hands balled into wooly fists and close to her chest. Aiding the sworn enemy of 6,000 years was blasphemous enough, but to abandon your post and  _ flee _ from Heaven was on a completely separate level of sin. A sin that demanded swift discipline. Discipline that resulted in a plummet to Below.

 

Phee cracked an eye open, breath still held as she turned her head, almost expecting him to turn and miracle himself behind her with a smiting fist, and the last thing she’d see would be that ridiculous gold jewelry in his teeth before becoming acquainted with a pool of sulfur.

 

She waited. And waited.

 

No surprise miracle. No smiting. No teeth.

 

He walked past.

 

Slowly, she poked her head out of the alcove, all the while blessing the Almighty in repeated praises in her head, catching the unmistakable back of the archangel’s head among the masses.  _ Of course, _ she thought,  _ the demon! An archangel wouldn’t bother with a runaway when there was evil afoot… or would it be afeet? No, afoot. _

 

She finally exhaled, a small blanket of calmness falling upon her shoulders as she inched ever so cautiously away from the alcove and back to the sidewalk, her conscious recommending a nice sprint back to the apartment where she could lock all the doors and windows before turning brainwashed to the action films the humans adored.

 

Her legs moved her forward without a second thought. Down Fleet Street, further from her apartment in Walworth, and stumbling to a stop at the dry cleaners before the black building, the lamp above the pub a flickering light before it instantly dimmed. The demon and Sandalphon were gone. Her brows creased, looking behind and in front of her, and taking note of the orange curtains behind the windows. 

 

“Those are new,” Phee uttered to herself, shuffling a wide berth around the pub’s front and eyeing the door. Closed, the lights inside off. Her brows furrowed and she glanced up to the clock outside of the Daily Telegraph building. 2:15 in the afternoon; they should surely be open by now, and with the excitement and panic of recent happenings, she couldn’t deny it had made her rather hungry. 

 

“AHHHH!”

 

Her eyes widened at the howl from inside, stopping herself from running directly into an older gentleman passing her. She wasted no time for an apology, hurrying to the windows and scanning furiously for an opening in the thick curtains. Nothing, nothing… then the switched flicked on in her head once again. She softly snapped her fingers, and a small slit broke open within the curtains. Cupping her hands around the glass, she peered inside, and a chill ran through her.

 

On the floor, Sandalphon was on his knees, huddled and clutching a trembling hand, white as a ghost. Circling him, the demon spoke in words Phee couldn’t decipher through the window, shaking their head as a disappointed mother would at their child. Phee’s eyes bounced from the archangel, back to the demon and their unintelligible words, and finally rested upon the item in their hands: a wooden bat.

 

The demon stopped in their movements, and Sandalphon raised his head to the darkness before him. The demon raised the bat, swinging and striking him in the side of the head with deadly aim. Phee’s knees buckled at the sickening crack through the window as Sandalphon fell to the pub’s floor, limp.

 

“Oh… o-oh no, no… What, what do I…” Her weak whispers found no ears and barely reached her own as she staggered backwards, head turning up and down Fleet Street as if expecting a miracle to pop up and rush to her side. All that came and went were humans, no angels, no angels ar-

 

Aziraphale. The angel assigned to Earth since the Beginning, the only foil to the demon Crowley’s damnation and wicked ways.

 

There was an angel to help. A miracle to her pleas.

 

She broke into a run, oblivious to the pair of striking eyes watching her from the pub.


	3. The Demon Formerly Known As...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm continuing this trainwreck of a fic let's go h h h h - Enjoy!

_ London - Some time earlier  _

 

I once heard someone say ‘no matter how long you’re away from home, it will never change’. As I stood on the corner of a street, bicycles ringing in one ear, motors roaring in another, and voices racing through both, I imagined that optimistic prat didn’t last long in the work world and holed themselves up in their bedroom some months later. 

 

I was away from London for close to 300 years, and it changed a bit. More than a bit. Then again, that was the expectation to survive in these times: adapt and keep up with the times in the race to the future. The loud, loud, smelly,  _ loud _ future.

 

If only I didn’t misplace my souvenir from my fateful tour into the Black Plague.

 

“That’s new,” I mumbled to myself for the 30th time, eyeing a sewer grate all while chewing on the straw of my smoothie. Lots of things were new, now that I really thought about it. The building across the street wasn’t there before, the massive red buses were a nice touch, that guy jaywalking across the road, the road itself… If memory served me right, this vicinity was once used for several attempted witch trials using the classic ‘if she floats, burn her on a boat’ method, ‘attempted’ being the keyword. In their infinite wisdom, no one really bothered to properly check the depth of the pond prior to the actual testing, so when all accused were only up to their shoulders when chucked in, everyone came to an agreement to never discuss the incident again.

 

My gnawing on the straw slowed, the contents of my smoothie reduced to a pinkish puddle huddling at the bottom of the cup. I wasn’t here to stand around and reminisce about the good old days. Not yet, at least.

 

First and foremost, I had a demon to snuff out. Take in the sights was a close second, spend a couple weeks acting like a typical tourist with no shame attached, and as a thrilling finale, return Below and hope to Satan she won’t drop kick me into the pit for shits and giggles.

 

_ Good plan, me. Thanks, inner thoughts. _

 

I didn’t realize I started chewing on the straw again until I swallowed what was effectively chewed off. Oddly enough, better than the smoothie, if only slightly. Braving a face, I casually dropped the cup in a passing woman’s tote bag, wiping away excess moisture as I turned a sharp corner past a traffic officer occupied with scribbling lazily on a pad.

 

Odd. I didn’t think officers had such pointed teeth. Or that many teeth for that matter.

 

“You’re late.”

 

Making a sharper U-turn, I worked up a thin smile as I faced the infamous Lord of the Files, propping myself against a pole. “And a ‘I’ve missed you so much I can’t express how I’m feeling right now’ to you, too.”

 

“You were due back to London two days ago,” Dagon continued, shutting the pad with a tight  _ snap _ . Part of me wondered if she imagined the pad as my face and her hand as a boot.

 

“Not my fault the airlines mixed up my flight. Next time we think up a service this diabolical, maybe consider givin’ us poor souls some slack, hm?” 

 

“The last thing you need is slack. Especially as you abandoned your duties all those centuries ago to parade along the surface.”

 

I rolled my eyes, exhaling loudly. “If you consider getting lost from the tour group for the plague ‘abandonment of duties’, then hey, more power to you, Dagy.” I averted my gaze in time to escape her glare. “I’m late, a disappointment to the legions of Hell and all Below, what else you wanna get off your chest and waste what time I could be using finding what’s his name?” I waved my hand vaguely a couple times, hoping Dagon would fall for the gesture and blurt out the demon’s name to refresh my memory.

 

She didn’t, instead tossing a small object in the air. Despite a rather spectacular fumble on my part I caught it, a scowl crossing my chapping lips. “A flip phone? Are we digging the 00’s that much?”

 

“Lord Beelzebub will be expecting frequent updates on your mission, Executioner, as well as your… location. Only to ensure you won’t lose your way once again.”

 

“Boy, it’s great we’re having such a casual conversation, or this would be incredibly concerning to people,” I chortled forcefully, wiping an imaginary tear from my eye.

 

“Yes, well…” Dagon took a moment to run her eyes up and down my front. If I weren’t already freezing and exhausted, dare I say I would’ve been downright annoyed. “Weapon?”

 

“It’s on the way, got a delivery scheduled at, uh, they got a funky word for it here… Anyway, yeah, on the way. En route. Turns out planes don’t really jive with bats onbo-”

 

“So long as it hasn’t been abandoned or ‘lost’, then your mission remains. You of all demons should know what disaster would await us should it fall in the wrong hands, Andras.”

 

I said nothing, chewing on the inside of my cheeks in growing confusion upon Dagon’s thin brows furrowing in equal puzzlement. That name sounded oh so familiar, and I’m sure I heard it somewhere before… somewhere so many times… somewh- oh.

 

“Oh yeah, that’s me, innit? Well,  _ was _ , see I changed it waaaaay way back when, mid-1400s. Wasn't a bad time, wasn't a good time. Yeah, no, I go by…”

 

I turned, finding Dagon replaced by… nothing. Throwing one hand in the air and picking at the drying skin on my lips, I gave a low snort and pushed the brim on my bolero, continuing on my way.

 

There was a thing to be said and learned about crushes, see. You either crush it out of existence, or let it crush and leave you in a lot of metaphorical (or in the unfortunate rare cases, literal) pieces. With Dagon and I, the damage was only minimal to some scrapes and bites, and we both came out of it with a healthy level of spite towards one another.

 

Ah. Digressing again.

 

“A pub! That’s what they’re called.”

  
  


~ ~ ~ 

 

Back in the states, I found buses comparable to a pool of sulfur filled with old bones, and the bones set ablaze. Just looking at one as it drove by my motel room in Vermont sent anxiety spiraling at me with a swift punch to the everything. Nothing about those buses brought me joy (then again, demons weren’t supposed to even look in the direction of positive emotions much less feel them). Having been stuck on one from California to the East Coast in the late 60s led me to believe that humans sought to spread their own chaos to their fellow kind without a care in the world. Admirable if not intensely concerning.

 

Sitting tucked in the back of a double decker, I was pl-satisfied to find the chaos remained within the states for the moment. Screaming infants replaced with gentle murmurs, crackling radios and busted AC nowhere to be seen, heard, or felt, and the ghastly odors, oh Satan the  _ odors _ were unbearable to the point where I was ready to become acquainted with the roadkill along Route 66. All gone. 

 

The driver had his own route to complete, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind or even notice a small detour across town.

 

I fished out the clamshell phone, turning it on all sides a few times before dropping it carelessly in my palm and prying it open and closed with a flick of my thumb. As a whole, demons weren’t wholly creative outside of the whole ‘punishment and torture’ box (even in there it was depressing to see their ideas), but I found myself imagining the flaps as Dagon’s mouth. 

 

‘You’re a disgrace to all nine circles of Hell, you’re pathetic to even a demon’s standards, your eyes make me wanna throw up ahhhh.’

 

“Maybe so, Dagy, but you better watch yourself. Once Below catches up and finds out you can hoard all those fancy files on a computer, you’re gonna find yourself ‘Lord of the Gutter Cleaners’.”

 

‘Gasp, you… you’re right. I’ve been so blind in my arrogant, stuck-up, cruel ways. I’ll be cast down in the next 300 years, is there anyway you can ever forgive me?’

 

“Oh Dagy, sweet Dagy. Absolutely not.”

 

‘Noooooo, don’t not forgive me, you’re so heartless I could fall for you aga-’

 

The bus jerked to a stop, and were my hand not quick enough to slap and plant itself against the fogging window, I would have reintroduced a level of pain to my body that hadn’t been experienced since the late 1800s. I was not alone in the surprise, as the other passengers, scarce as they were, lurched forward and scrambled to steady themselves. While not as successful as them, with limited success I managed to keep the majority of my body on the seat as my legs slid deep under the next seats, my arm slipping and hanging limp off the plush cushion. I went for a low sigh.

 

_ Clack, clack, clack. _

 

Down the phone rolled along the aisle. Well, not much rolled, more bounced and scattered until it smacked rather loudly against a seat’s base near the middle of the passageway and fell to a stop. 

 

I remained half-seated, half-sprawled in place, eyes glued on the phone as both front and rear doors opened with a hiss, a particularly strong breeze of cold air sweeping in. Slowly, I blinked. A glance fell on the closest exit, and in the back of my head, a voice eerily similar to that of Gregory Peck perked up.

 

_ You could leave. _

 

“I could leave,” I muttered lowly, the idea warming. I could get up, gather myself, hop off to the sidewalk, make my way to the bar, all while leaving that piece of crap phone behind to confuse the he-hea-confuse Below to no end, and at the end of the day, drop in and gift Beez with the execution of the millennia.

 

I could do all of that and more.  _ Could. _

 

Could is a funny word. It introduces a number of possibilities one may accomplish. With that, it also introduces an even larger number of outcomes the possibilities dream up. In my case, not-Gregory Peck’s encouragement welcomed only one outcome.

 

I  _ could  _ bail and leave the phone, get the job done. Beez  _ will  _ find out, and whatever she’ll think of as punishment  _ will  _ not be merciful, even to a demon’s standards.

 

My face soured, but reluctantly I pushed myself upward with a chuffed huff, stopping immediately at the newly-structured wall of bodies in my path. Humans 1, 2, 3, A, B, and Who Cares took their sweet time in exiting the bus, eyes once exhausted staring straight ahead and their bodies in… such a perfect line.

 

It was then that along with the sudden burst to the rear door, the overall mood of the bus changed. On each face, a smile beneath eyes turning bright amidst the cold air and graying clouds. Uncomfortable silence shifted into chipper and cheery chatter as they waited ever so patiently to get off.

 

This in turn only kicked my impatience up a good three notches, but with it came along a winding knot of uneasiness that sunk in my stomach. One demon alone had the reputation and power to sink the mood in a radius of a good 200 feet. Toss another demon in the mix, everyone’s depressed for a hefty two, three weeks. Of course you had the natural counterbalances, where one angel wanders in and negates all of the, well, negative powers that be.

 

My lips twisted. These meatbags should be drowning in sorrow and misery, so why in Satan’s name were they acting as if the sky were showering them with blessed miracles?

 

Unless…

 

_ Oh, shit. _

 

“Crap. Crap, crap, crapcrapcrap.” Whatever angelic presence awaited, it would’ve been enough to thwart me into next week, and the unfortunate tumble off a moving train in the 1800s would have been but a scrape in comparison. They were approaching with each growing second, and without a thought in my head I vaulted myself through the meatbag wall and over the seats, sliding and crumbling into one before the phone. The positivity practically oozed out of the humans, I kept my lips tight should the joyous mood inspire my gut to spread its own thoughts and sank into the worn leather, the phone now dangling loosely between two fingers. 

 

_ Alright, piece of crap returned, now to bail and... _

 

Two muddled reflections appeared along the ceiling of the bus, and a powerful swell of heavenly aura filled the bus’ interior and slammed an invisible boot into my chest. Slowly, the doors squealed close with an agonizing and piercing snap and the massive hulk of metal pushed onward.

 

_ And reflect on each and every regret of my life before the light kicks my ass. Where to even begin.  _ I slunk as far as I could into the seat, inwardly cursing in any and all languages I picked up on Earth (two) at that piece of outdated chunk of scrap that sat tight in both hands pressing hard against my chest.

 

_ You shoulda listened to me when you had the chance, idiot _ , not-Gregory Peck sang. Close by, the two angels took seat, and from where I sat… well, slumped awkwardly, I could see the tips of their heads, one a fascinating shade of dark brown done up in a style more accepting some decades ago, the other… bald. Nothing fascinating about that.

 

The radio played some unknown tune, and after a few minutes of silence, Hair Angel spoke up.

 

“Just as we board, all the humans leave. How miraculous for us,” she chuckled dryly. I rolled my eyes.

 

Boring Bald shifted somewhat, offering a short scoff. “The less around to hear.” Fingers snapped. “The human driver will not hear anything we bring up.”

 

“It’s a shame, really,” Hair Angel mused. “This would have made for a wonderful battlefield to which we would have won. Instead, the humans use the area to crowd around and gossip and go about their short lives.”

 

“Uriel and Nathaniel caught Gabriel staring down at London for hours, even days. He enjoyed coming down here, Michael, he always enjoyed the suits they tailored for him. Now he refuses to leave Heaven, hasn’t left Head Office since…” Boring Bald trailed off.

 

“Yes.” The cold fury from Michael trickled through the bus and I couldn’t hold off a shiver. “Made a fool by a bigger fool of a disgraceful Principality. The last angel to mutter his name was immediately demoted to Guardian of the Far Left Corner. Joaniel of Blessing Accounting.”

 

“A pity,” Boring Bald replied, but nowhere could I even sense remorse in his tone. “It’s despicable, atrocious. He insults Gabriel, insults all of Heaven, and he’s free to go unpunished. He and his… demon  _ plaything _ .”

 

I cocked an eyebrow.

 

Venom may have oozed from Michael’s mouth when she responded. “Crowley. Yes. Heaven is… strongly advised not to engage him, just as Hell is forbidden to seek punishment to the demon. He had me miracle him a bath towel, it was revolting.”

 

_ Crowley, that’s the guy, that’s right. The guy I’m supposed to execute. The guy that’s conveniently hands-off.  That’s just… so… great. _

 

“All rather unfortunate we couldn’t stage an accident at his bookshop in…” The pause in Bald’s musings gave peace to my ears. “The humans call it So-Ho, I believe. Conveniently lose the paperwork for a new corporation, and he’s conveniently trapped in Heaven for all eternity.”

 

“If only it were that simple. Anywhere he lingers, the demon is sure to be close by. My new contact Below gave word they’re nearly inseparable since that day.”

 

A wide, uneven grin spread along my lips, and my eyes glinted. Orders shoved into my hands by Hell, information dropped in my lap by a couple loudmouth featherheads. Take  _ that, _ not-Gregory Peck.

 

Above the driver’s seat, ‘Fleet Street’ scrolled along the message board, but seeing ‘flee’ was all the hint I needed. Reaching up to the metal bars positioned beside each pair of seats, I calmly yet frantically tapped on the red button, saving myself further, well, self-humiliation by holding tightly as the bus screeched to an immediate halt. Behind, a car blasted its horn tenfold, and my grin grew.

 

“What’s going on? This is no stop. Michael?”

 

“I did no such thing.”

 

“Ah, that’s on me,” I called out, pulling up to my feet, bag in hand. “I’d apologize, but, uh… not really in my  _ nature  _ if y’catch my drift. That kinda humor used to kill downstairs, really.” 

 

The bus doors once again squealed as they opened and silence reigned over the angels. 

 

“Well, this is… yup. Kinda awkward, had this witty line planned somewhere in my head. H’okaybye.”  

 

~~~

 

Over the vast centuries, it became common knowledge that demons were never, and I quote from one particular demon and roommate, ‘the brightest knives in the tool shed’. Today, as I strolled down Fleet Street, hopping over puddles that those behind me won’t notice until it was too late, I strolled with the knowledge that angels were more or less on the same level of idiocy. Not one, not two, but a whopping three featherheads duped into spilling secrets and helping their hereditary enemy! No doubt that’d bump me up on Beez’s ‘Top 10 Least Disliked’, and with any luck knock Dagon down a couple pegs.

 

It was also common knowledge that angels were absolute trash at trying to blend in with the meatbags.

 

I’d give props for the effort, but that would fall into the ‘nice’ category. Four to five humans behind, the angels walked in step with a couple by his side, pretending to keep to his bland, bald self while throwing a glance ahead of him to make sure his target didn’t stray too far ahead. Meanwhile, six to seven more humans away, the featherhead from the corner tailed us, albeit managing to act more natural than her ally. 

 

2:05. If my math was right (it never was), I had between ten minutes to three hours before the delivery man showed up to drop off my weapon.

 

From there, Crowley’s days on Earth were numbered.

 

_ Good lord this angel sucks at sneaking. _ His ethereal presence itched at my skin, and I found myself struggling not to scratch at the pressing irritation slapping into me; just what I needed, some fancy, bald featherhead hounding me down in the middle of my interrupted impromptu-cation with his ditzy lackey in tow. The street was littered with cars jammed in traffic, and I wasn’t about to skip into the Daily Telegraph building for shelter; Dagon had cronies in all holes of the press and media, ready to rat out and spread the gossip to utterly ruin the reputation of their fellow occult brethren. 

 

It made me miss the good old days when tiffs were settled with some good old fashioned combat. 

 

I didn’t glance back to see how close the angels were, but the constant irritation turned to a heat digging deeper through my body. One if not both were advancing and no doubt prepping for the classic and always fair ‘two on one in the corner’ method. 

 

Ahead, my eyes flashed at a saving… well, damning grace.  _ Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese _ ’s sign sputtering out what light it could muster. A sudden, burning feeling swept over my hands, but the feeling was far from painful. It was a good feeling, a sensation one would get when a dear item they parted with wormed back into their life.  

 

Two angels vs. one demon wasn’t going to end well, that was a certain fact. 

 

Two angels against one annoyed executioner promised a slightly better outcome. Slightly. 

 

Holding in a low groan, I adjusted my bolero and slipped into the pub without a second thought, swiping a hand through the air in a fluid, slicing motion. Immediately, all patrons save for the bartender and a tall postman rose from their seats, abandoning their drinks and meals as they were herded into the backrooms. I strode over to the bar where the postman stood, cradling a narrow, rectangular box in his lanky arms like a new mother would her child, straightening out once I propped myself against the polished counter.

 

“Unless y’got a habit of making out of the way deliveries, I take it that’s mine.”

 

“They come once in a blue moon, makes for an interesting day if you ask me! I was here last week to deliver the new curtains, new owner wanted to give them a trial run.” He beamed, fishing out a small clipboard and pen. “You’re early, but two minutes early is better than two minutes late, that’s what I say. Just need your signature here, here, and… oh, here. Fancy eyes you got, nails too.”

 

“Contacts. Private manicurist.” I drew a looped but crooked line beside each X on the paper and he gently shifted the box into my hands with a tip of his hat. I vaguely waved in return and he hurried past me to the door, my ears catching a fast ‘pardon me’ as a strong wave of holiness swept over me. 

 

“Degenerate filth,” rang Bald Angel, shutting the door with a loud slam. 

 

The bartender turned his back on us upon an unheard command, remaining still as I groaned to myself. “You kiss your Almighty with that mouth? Kinda busy here, errands to run, things to thwart. You know how it goes.”

 

I sealed my lips tight to stop a low-pitched whine as the angel advanced. “You’ve a lot of nerve to show up here,  _ creature _ . Unfortunate for you, but fortunate for me that I never forget the scent of a demon who crossed my path.”

 

“I guess this’d be double unfortunate for me, ‘cuz I have absolutely no idea who you are.” I moved to rip the tape off the box, sniffing. “Soooo, do the angelic, heavenly, whatever thing you all do and beat it.”

 

Baldy stopped mid-step, mouth agape for a silent, peaceful moment before his eyes flared. “You… how  _ dare _ you. Even the most thick-headed of your kind knows who I am. You’ve the gall to feign your ignorance before me! Sandalphon!”

 

In the pub, all that was heard was glasses faintly clinking against one another as the bartender stocked the shelves and tape forcibly removed from the cardboard package. I glanced over to Baldy, lips pursed as I gave a nonchalant shrug, crinkling the tape into an uneven ball and tossing it aside. 

 

“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell, Sand Dolphin. I think you’ll have better luck when another schmuck comes your wa--”

 

Whatever witty remark I had to finish my sentence fell to a halt as I found myself knocked off my feet and slammed into the wall, dots of every shape, size, and color flooding my vision. Baldy flexed his hands, tugging down the lapels on his ugly suit. 

 

“Li… Little uncalled for, but good hit, I’ll give you th-that,” I coughed out, hissing as I wobbled up to my feet and grabbing a stool for support. “I dunno what you and your crony’s planning ganging up on me like this, but I’m giving you one chance to get lost, or there’s going to be…” I looked down at my arms, finding them empty. 

 

The package lay at Baldy’s feet.

 

“A problem?” He sneered, picking up the box by the flap, spilling out the contents on the counter. Packing peanuts broke free and rolled all along the counter before a wooden baseball bat emerged and dropped gracelessly to the floor with a loud  _ thud. _

 

“Was gonna go for something a little more intimidating, if I’m being honest…” I sucked in a deep breath, eyeing the bat. “Let’s call it good for now, huh? Kick that over to me, my lips are sealed and Head Office doesn’t need to worry about this dispute. Deal, yeah?”

 

“Oh I hardly think my office will have any qualms about an archangel smiting a lowly fiend like yourself. Your office won’t even know you’re missing.”

 

“Archangel…?” I snorted out a laugh. “Maybe I ain’t the brightest bulb in the haystack, but I know who the hoity-toities are Above, and boy are you not one of them.”

 

“I’m as much one as Uriel and Michael. Gabriel saw me deserving of the title.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re not an  _ Archangel _ . Just an ‘archangel’, so I’m thinking you were slapped that promotion to put a little ‘oomph’ to your wings, eh? Now, uh, sendy the batty over to… me-ey.”

 

My body met the wall once again by a mighty force from Baldy and I crumpled to the ground in a gasp. My head and back racked in the newborn agony, my eyes tightly shut as I muttered unintelligible profanity at myself.  _ Hey Beez, quick update for that tiny job. See, I decided to piss off a pathetic archangel, so that’s why I got smote back Below and looking like I went through ten pools of flaming sulfur pools. My bad. _

 

“It’s been some time since I thoroughly thwarted the wiles of evil, especially ones I’ve crossed in the past,” Sandalphon chuckled to himself and reached for the bat. “You discorporated me centuries ago, so allow me to return the favor and leave you with a war…”

 

His hand held tight on the leather-bound grip of the object for only a few seconds before the pub erupted in an ear-splitting screech. A surge of hellfire enveloped his hand in a flash and he threw himself backwards. My arms wrapped around my head and I ducked as the bat flew forward and dropped clumsily along my legs, falling still. 

 

“So, uh…” I cleared my throat and got to my feet, drumming clawed fingers along the sleek, wooden surface of the bat. “I probably should’ve given you a heads up. See, this ain’t a souvenir I nabbed from the meatbags, no.” I stepped towards Sandalphon, grinning once he tripped over his feet and collapsed. “‘Course, archangels such as you should’ve really sensed the damnation hiding within, right? Damned items forged in hellfire good for demons, not so great for featherheads.” 

 

Baldy didn’t reply, or if he did it was faint. He sat on his knees, trembling, staring down in horror at the hideous splotch of blackened burns throbbing along his palm and fingers, jarring cracks of red and gold splitting through.

 

“But hey, don’t beat yourself too hard ‘bout it, Sandal,” I continued. “I’m sure my office won’t give two craps about it, and I’m sure yours won’t even notice anything out of the ordinary. And…” I raised my head, eyebrows arching at the shadows in the corner. “Gabriel?!”

 

Immediately, Sandalphon’s head raised, a flicker of hope and relief swimming in his eyes. My own flashed and I raised the bat with both hands, grinning crookedly from ear to ear. Dumber than a sack of wet sand.

 

I swung. A crack sang an awful tone through the pub, ending on a sudden note when Sandalphon’s body slumped forward, limp. A bright light wrapped around his form, and seconds later, gone. 

 

“Huh, thought that’d be more suspenseful than I thought. But, there’s one problem out of my way.” I sniffed and rubbed my sleeve along the bat, humming along to a song playing on the radio when a sight caught my eye. The orange curtains were far from a good choice, though I was sure I didn’t recall that slit. I moved over to the windows, a curved nail pushing down the slit, revealing a most… exhausting scene.

 

The featherhead from the street corner, running further and further until she vanished within a crowd of humans. My lip curled, shoulders slouching in growing annoyance. 

 

“One problem down, so many more coming up. Way to go, LJ.”


End file.
